The Last Boy: A Novel

Author

prologue

The pages felt like parchment but were not made of animal skin; they had the texture of a wood product yet were not paper. Tripoli remembered seeing some material like it once at an exhibition at the university museum. Tapa cloth, it was called, and it was made by the Polynesians from the bark of mulberry trees. The leaves of these ancient volumes sitting on Tripoli's kitchen table had the exact same feel. Tissue thin, yet strong.

Outside, the wind suddenly picked up and came whistling around his isolated farmhouse, rocking the trees as the sky darkened and flashes of electrical discharge illuminated the distant hills. Oblivious to the weather, he hunched over the books that sat nestled in the small ring of yellow light spilling from his lamp.

The bindings on the books—and there were five of them in all—were hand-sewn. Each gathering had been stitched together, then connected to make the whole. Tripoli's father had been a collector of old books. What a pity that he was no longer alive, he would have relished seeing these.

Tripoli began on what he guessed to be the first volume. It was not easy going. The books were in a multiple of languages, both ancient and modern. They were written in what looked to be Hebrew and Greek, English that spanned the gamut from old to medieval to modern. There were even portions written in Chinese-looking characters, other sections in what might be Sanskrit.

He concentrated on the portions that were in English. They were handwritten in a florid style that was difficult to decipher, and the language was old-fashioned and strange.

The first book appeared to be about the world, the greater world, not just the sun and planets but other galaxies and solar systems. There were drawings of orbits, endless charts with numbered entries. Interspersed throughout the book were elaborate illustrations adorned with gold leaf and colored with hues of lapis lazuli and the most dazzling of red-orange pigments. There were pages covered with what could have been mathematical formulas, though the symbols were like none that he had ever seen; and diagrams, too, plans and schematics for what looked like machines and odd contraptions.

Once Tripoli started, everything around him seemed to fall away: the day vanished into night, then dawn broke through with its early, pink light.

Slowly, very slowly, he began to understand—or thought he understood. Here, locked away in these precious books, was a virtual treasure trove of accumulated wisdom, a merging of philosophy and science, psychology and engineering.

Tripoli pushed on through the next day, breaking only to give the animals some water and fresh fodder, reading until his eyes burned and his brain ached. Jumping ahead to the more recent volumes, he discovered small inserts attached in strategic places where gaps had been left in the text. When he ran his fingers over the surface of these attachments, he discovered that the paper was different from the surrounding pages, crisper, newer. The ink, too, seemed fresher. When he put his nose close to the paper, it smelled of bark and berries. The notations contained some kind of ideograms commingled with numbers. One of the images looked like that of a little boy.

That evening as he wandered the fields and forests surrounding his home, he thought about the old texts, thought about himself, the transformation he was undergoing, he a streetwise, hard-boiled cop. He thought, too, about Molly. How she would somehow change, though she might continue to resist. How their lives would never be the same. And how it all began with the disappearance of a child.

POLICE EXPAND HUNT FOR BOY

Police widened their search this morning for five-year-old Matthew Roland who mysteriously disappeared from his Watertown Elementary School classroom. State Police have joined local authorities, extending their search to include a three- county area.

The boy was last seen two days ago in his kindergarten class. Shortly before noon, the boy's teacher, Lydia Munson, noticed his absence and notified the school's principal, who then alerted the Jefferson County Sheriff's office.

This is one of the most exhaustive searches we’ve ever done, explained Sheriff Dennis Holbrow.If the boy is lost outside, we’d better find him fast. The weather's getting very cold.

The boy's mother was reported in seclusion and could not be reached for comment. Anybody with information concerning the disappearance is asked to contact the police.

—Watertown Daily Times

November 5, l938

BOOK ONE

chapter one

In Ithaca, New York, traffic signals are controlled by a central computer that usually keeps traffic flowing. Local and state police agencies are linked by fiber-optic networks, and news travels at the speed of light.

A small boy walks up the north side of Green Street past the photo store and Diamond's Indian Restaurant. Though the afternoon is chilly, in fact downright cold for October, the child seems skimpily dressed in his red flannel shirt with blue and yellow lines, bib jeans, and sneakers. Perhaps because he is so short, a little kid of four or five, no one appears to notice him. He walks with a determined stride as if he knows where he's going, has done this before— though neither is true. Reaching the safety of the sidewalk, the child wends his way through a small cluster of shoppers leaving the Woolworth's department store.

A frail old woman, with her once fine coat buttoned up against the wind, is standing on the sidewalk in front of the store, staring aimlessly at the sky. She lowers her gaze to watch the little boy as he darts diagonally across the busy intersection, the traffic swirling around him. Clutching her thin coat tighter to her throat, the old woman continues to peer at the child as he progresses up the street. Her skin stretches taut on the bones of her face, tissue thin, revealing the blueness of the veins that course just below the surface. She, too, appears to be out of place amidst the driving bustle of people on the street. And only she seems to notice the incongruity of the little boy's solitary presence.

Shoppers and workers rush past, hurrying to catch the bus that has just pulled up, nearly knocking the child over. Where's his mother? the old woman wonders. Her children would never be out alone like this, not at his age. She briefly tries to remember how old her children are, but becomes muddled as the memories wash over her. She knows they are a bit older. Maybe a lot older. Maybe not.

As he nears, she steps forward to meet him, her gait a little unsteady.

Aren’t you a little young to be crossing streets by yourself, young man? she inquires as she tries to block his path.

Huh? says the little boy, looking up at her warily. His nose is running.

What's your name?

Danny.

Danny what?

Danny Driscoll. He starts to edge around her.

Does your mother know where you are, Danny?

I’m okay, he says, wiping his nose with his sleeve and continuing his march up the street.

Wait a minute! The old woman calls after the little boy. She attempts to keep pace with him, but quickly tires and abandons the effort. She steps back to lean against the store's wall and catch her breath. A jet descending toward the Ithaca airport skims by overhead, the whine of its engines piercing the snowy clouds. It captures the old woman's attention and her eyes shift skyward. When at last she again looks up the street, the little boy is gone and she has already forgotten her purpose. Suddenly she remembers: My little Mary is forty-six… no…forty-eight, she murmurs under her breath.

The sky broke open for an instant, yielding a chink of blue in the sea of heavy gray. Then the sun, half buried behind the western hills above the lake, suddenly burst through the gloom. The sunlight flooded the valley with a final but fading flare, causing the maples behind the magazine's office to flame a spectacular red and splashing a blazing shaft of golden yellow against Molly's computer screen.

Molly Driscoll hadn’t realized how late it was until that final flash of sun caught her attention. She had been so absorbed in work, putting out fires as Larry called it, that the day had just slipped by. The office was often a madhouse, but Molly loved it, thrived on it, fed on the excitement. Had Doreen not reminded her, she might have forgotten lunch. It was almost three before she had stopped for a quick sandwich. That was the way it was in this new job. Larry Pierce was the kind of guy who made you want to give everything.

It was only in the late afternoon that Molly began to think about Danny. They had both overslept that morning—the alarm had failed to go off, and she had had to yank Danny out of bed, frantically throwing on her own clothes while getting him dressed, too. She had packed a lunch and then stood over Danny in the kitchen of their trailer, rushing him through his oatmeal.

Come on, Honey. You can eat in the car—we’ve got to run.

It's too hot. I can’t eat it! he complained as she shepherded him to the old Chevy. She had run back to the trailer to pour on more milk to cool it. The runny cereal kept dribbling down his sleepy chin as they drove to town.

Shortly into the ride, Danny had a coughing fit and put down the half-eaten bowl. At first Molly thought that he was choking on the cereal, but then suspected that he was coming down with another cold. He always seemed to be picking things up at Kute Kids. A couple of weeks before, Danny had gotten a stomach bug and she had taken the entire day off. Last week her wreck of a Chevy wouldn’t start and she lost half the morning. Well, she thought grimly, unless Danny had a fever he had to go to daycare. The crew at the Upstater magazine pulled together as a team and she couldn’t leave them in the lurch yet again. And these days, jobs in an Ithaca of darkened and emptied downtown stores were scarce. Especially decent-paying ones with a promising future. Day jobs. And working at the magazine was a hell of a lot more stimulating— not to say more respectable—than her nights cocktail waitressing at the Ramada where the construction workers from the new bypass on Route 13 stared down her top as she served them drinks.

The publication was a small operation. Larry ran it with three editors, two editorial assistants, and the newest addition—Molly. She was essentially the secretary—with a fancier title—but the job came with the promise of advancement to assistant, then, maybe, some day, to full editor. A dream job. People like Doreen and Sandy and Ben could come and go as they pleased, sometimes even work at home if they wanted to.

Now, as the sun sank behind the hills, it was nearly 5:30, and Molly was eager to leave but didn’t dare until Larry started packing up or gave her the nod. Her boss was a tall man, somewhere in his forties, she guessed, an exuberant, entrepreneurial type with a head of dark, curly hair and strong, chiseled features—the kind of man who knew how to get things done. Before coming to Ithaca, he apparently had been a hotshot executive at New York Magazine. All it took was a call from him and he had a guy like Danny DeVito in town visiting the local wineries and generating a piece in the Upstater.

Molly thought him a bit vain: he worked out to keep himself trim and always had a bright-colored handkerchief folded into the breast pocket of his suit. She had seen him around town with a number of different women. Some of them were married. Ostensibly it was for business, but Molly wondered—not that it was any of her concern. He's a dandy, she often thought to herself with a half smile. The kind of guys who had always attracted her were more rough and tumble, men who were a bit on the outs with society. Like her ex.

Now the office was empty, silent except for the sound of Larry's voice. He was still on the phone. Molly was about to call Kute Kids to let them know she’d be a little late, but an important fax came in and she got distracted. Then the other lines started ringing. A writer in Vermont hadn’t received his check. An artist was still missing two photos that he needed to retouch. Panic. Panic.

Once it passed 5:30, Molly started getting anxious. She really needed to pick up Danny by six when they closed Kute Kids. If parents came late, they were fined. And the fines were hefty—$15 for the first fifteen minutes, $25 for every ten minutes thereafter. Mrs. Oltz, the director, was usually pretty pissed about it, too, thought Molly with a rising sense of panic.

Molly finally stuck her head into Larry's office and raised a finger. He covered the mouthpiece and mouthed,Five more minutes.

Molly busied herself, though her eyes kept darting to the clock. Quarter to six. If she drove at breakneck speed, she could still make it—if traffic wasn’t bad. When Larry got off the line, she sneaked a peek into his office, hoping to find him packing up his briefcase. He was reaching again for the phone—didn’t even notice her.

While Molly waited for her chance to finally leave the office, she kept thinking about Danny, about bedtime, the way he always wanted her to crawl under the covers with him, cuddle him and tell him stories. Sitting at her desk, Molly closed her eyes and summoned his image; now she could feel him, smell the scent of his hair, sweet and clean, hear his voice, high and excited, his words tumbling into each other. Danny.

Molly made good time down the highway. Curving down from the eastern heights, she skimmed the edge of the lake, on her right Stewart Park with its tall willows arching gracefully over the shore. She’d be late for Danny's pickup—but not that late. Once she reached the edge of town, however, it seemed every stoplight and intersection conspired against her. Then she hit the construction on Route 13. The downtown traffic was snarled. The air was rife with choking dust as commuters heading home through the hub of town were slowed to a crawl. Then Molly's lane came to a complete stop as men with red flags waved the oncoming traffic around a swirl of dump trucks and graders.

Come on. Come on, she said, banging her hands futilely on the steering wheel.

She switched on the radio. It was already well into the local news. She listened to some mindless babble about sports, then the recap: something about a Conrail tanker car derailing alongside a trout stream just south of town. Seven thousand gallons of diesel fuel had spilled out. The plume was now in the fast-flowing waters of the inlet and heading toward the lake, killing all the fish and aquatic life in its path. There was mention of development plans for the Westend. Sales figures for new and existing homes. Though the economy in the rest of the country was vibrant, the sales figures for last month were still sharply down. Molly listened but couldn’t quite concentrate. She put on an easy listening station, but it just irritated her. She peered up at the distant sky; in the waning light she could see a fresh line of dark, menacing clouds moving in from the west.

Traffic started to move again. She checked her watch. Twenty after six! There goes a chunk of today's pay to fines, thought Molly, and could feel her stomach wrench into knots. By now all the other children were certainly picked up and Molly could envision Danny waiting just inside the door, his jacket on, his little lunch box clutched in his hand. He always looked so desperate when she was late—though he never uttered a complaint; he just looked at her with that hurt look.

Molly took a quick left on Green Street, passing the dilapidated houses caught between the commercial and residential, up past the fire station where they were hosing down an engine, another left on Albany Street to West State.

The daycare was housed in an austere building, built of concrete block with big plate glass windows looking out on the busy street. It had gone through many incarnations. Molly could remember when it had been an auto body shop, then a human body shop where college kids and yuppies pedaled bicycles that didn’t go anywhere. She thought about the incongruity of people trying to burn up calories while other folks downtown or in their shacks out in the hills were going hungry; subsistence farmers eking out an existence on their hard scrabble land.

As Molly pulled up to the curb, she saw one of the new women from Kute Kids at the front door. Her back was to the street and it looked like she was locking up.

Hello! Molly called out as she trotted up the walk in her heels.

The woman started, then turned, her wide flat face turning puzzled as she recognized Molly. Molly had seen her only two or three times before, and ruefully noted that she looked barely out of high school. Only the wire-rimmed glasses over her unlined face gave any suggestion of age.

Whew! I’m sorry to be late, Molly could feel a rivulet of sweat trickling down her side.Where's—?

Huh? said the girl. Her dark hair was clipped as short as a boy's, and she had a big gold stud in her nose. Her coat was open revealing a peasant blouse with embroidered border.

My son, explained Molly, catching her breath.Danny. Danny Driscoll. Molly's smile suddenly felt pasted on her face.

Danny, echoed the girl. She look confused.

Yes! Where's—?

I’m sorry, they’ve all been picked up, she said flatly.

What are you talking about? Molly's hands were trembling and suddenly her knees felt weak.I just came to get my—

Maybe your husband picked him up?

"I don’t have one! What the hell are you talking about?"

But your boy's not here, she said plaintively.

Did Danny go home with another child? she asked with strained voice. Molly's throat felt like it was closing, choking her.Is that it?

The girl didn’t answer.

Where's Mrs. Oltz? Molly pushed her aside and opened the door.Mrs. Oltz? She called out as she stepped in.

The place was dark. Empty. In the faint light from the street Molly could see the little chairs upside down on the children's tables. Toys had been cleared away and floors were still wet from being mopped. Under the odor of cleanser lingered the smell of urine and mold. Molly fought the swell of panic threatening to overtake her.

Mrs. Oltz! Her voice echoed through the empty rooms. The only returning sound was a refrigerator. It came on with a clank and then whirred. Maybe Mrs. Oltz was in the kitchen? Certainly she would know where Danny was.Mrs. Oltz!

Mrs. Oltz left, came the voice of the girl from the dimness behind her. She had to go to the dentist. She had to get a tooth pulled and—

So where's my child? Molly spun around to confront the girl. You know, my boy? Danny! The little guy with blond curly hair? Hey, get some lights on here!

The lights came on and Molly squinted in the sudden brightness. Illuminated, the room seemed even more deserted. The girl looked pale and frightened.

I’m new and… she tried to explain, but Molly didn’t want to hear it.

He had bib jeans on and a red plaid shirt, Molly said, prowling around the room.You remember?

The girl looked at her dumbly and Molly's mind felt like it was spinning out of control. Desperately she fought to calm herself. Maybe they had sent him home with someone else? They weren’t supposed to do that, but…if she could just get hold of Mrs. Oltz. She’d know. Of course!

Molly turned on the girl.When did Mrs. Oltz leave?

Around two.

Where's Sylvia?

She was sick and didn’t come in today.

And Louella? Molly's eyes kept darting around, instinctively checking the doors and windows.

She just comes in mornings and stays till lunch.

"You mean you’ve been alone here with all the kids since two?"

Yes, but…

Okay. Fine. Then you were here when the parents came to get them, right?

Yeah. I think so.

"What the hell do you mean think so?"

You’re confusing me.The girl looked as if she were going to cry. Molly was herself already crying and couldn’t help it.

Please try to think, she pleaded. You were here, right?

Yes.

"And saw Danny today—you do know the boy I’m talking about, don’t you?" Molly was now moving through the building, flipping on lights as she went.

Yes, yes, said the girl in the tiniest of voices. Her eyes were now flooded with tears and her nose was running.

Molly did a quick check of the kitchen. Then two bathrooms, the kids’ and the employees’. Nothing. The girl trailing in her wake kept sniffling. Molly reversed course abruptly, bumping into her. Did one of the parents take Danny home? The refrigerator had stopped and Molly could hear the blood pounding in her ears.

I don’t think so.

"Think? Either someone did or they didn’t. Come on!"

No, she shook her head.No one!

The exit leading to the play area in the rear was closed. She unlocked it and swung open the door. A blast of cold air rushed in. Outside, the line of deserted swings rocked in the wind. The slides and sandbox were empty. The fence was high. Taller than any adult. Did you have them outside today?

Only a little in the morning. Then we had lunch. And I know he was here then. It was the first time that the girl had said that she had actually seen him.

Molly shut the door. "If no one took him, then he's got to be here."

But he couldn’t be, because they’re all gone. I’m sure…

Molly was already in the small alcove off the hall where they put the kids’ coats and boots when the weather was inclement. As soon as she flipped on the light she spotted Danny's red jacket hanging from a hook. Her chest constricted and she began breathing rapidly, shallowly. It felt like the air had suddenly been sucked out of the building.

Oh my God! Molly gasped, clutching it tightly to her face. The silky jacket with letters Big Red emblazoned on it was the one Mr. Greenhut had given him when his own boy had outgrown it. Danny treasured it. Would never go anywhere without it.A big boy's jacket, he had called it and had refused to take it off—even in bed. He would never have willingly left without it.

Then she spotted Danny's dinosaur-stickered lunch box tucked in the corner. Molly yanked it open. The thermos tumbled out and rolled across the floor. The box dangling from the handle was empty except for a nibbled core of an apple and some crumbs of bread.

The girl stood framed in the doorway of the alcove watching her.

Molly bolted right past her and raced back to the kitchen. Danny! she called out, her voice shaking,Honey, are you here? She went straight to the stove and pulled open the oven door. Except for layers of burnt-on crud, it was bare. She raced from one end of the room to the other; down on her knees she yanked open the deep floor cabinets, tugging out things to get an unobstructed view, pots and pans, packages of Pampers and paper toweling, blankets and towels flying across the floor. Danny? Danny? He could be hiding anywhere, she realized. He liked to play games, concealing himself in tight places and then jumping out and startling her with a loud Boo! It was a game that always frightened her—yet he kept doing it no matter how much she pleaded.

Her eyes went to the massive refrigerator/freezer. Oh Jesus! she uttered and lurched for the handles. In her mind's eye she saw a child's body curled up in a frozen, fetal pose. She jerked the heavy door open with such violence that containers of juice and milk tumbled out and sloshed across the linoleum floor. Except for some yogurts and bruised fruit, it was empty. The freezer had nothing but a box of ice pops.

The girl was standing lamely in the kitchen watching her. Her inaction infuriated Molly.

Don’t just stand there! she ordered, tracking the milk and juice out into the main room. At least help me look. Check the other rooms. If his jacket's here, he's got to be here! Somewhere! And what the hell's in here? she asked rattling the padlocked door to a closet.

It's just for storage.

Well, get it open!

The girl started to fumble with the keys. Molly grabbed them and popped open the lock. In an instant she was digging her way through the closet, flinging aside brooms and mops as she waded into the darkness. Danny! Danny! Now she was screaming, she realized, and didn’t care anymore.

A moment later she was at the door leading to the basement. There was no light switch and she started down the rickety stairs. The cellar smelled of rot.Danny? Can you hear me, love?

From above she could make out the sound of the girl moving around the other rooms. Then her muffled voice. She was on the phone. Talking, Molly guessed, to Mrs. Oltz.

Hey, where the hell's the light switch? Molly shouted.

I think the bulb went out, the girl called back, coming to the head of the dark stairs.

You mean you don’t have a goddamn light down here? Molly's terror was turning to fury.

Here, said the girl, returning with a flashlight.

Molly swept the beam around the basement. There were piles of trash on the floor, heaps of soggy newspapers and crumpled milk cartons, a discarded sofa black with mildew and embroidered in networks of spider webs. Had she known this place was such a pigsty, that the workers were so stupid, she would never have sent Danny here, she thought in a fit of guilt.

Anybody ever come down here?

Yeah. To do the diapers, explained the girl. But he can’t be down here. I’m sure of that.

How can you be so…Oh, shit, mumbled Molly, fear gripping her. Up against a wall at the far end of the cellar near the furnace was a commercial washer and next to it a bulky gas dryer. When she got closer, she discovered that there was just enough space between the dryer and the wall for a kid Danny's size to squirm his way in. She poked the flashlight into the gap and forced her head into the opening to take a look. From what she could see, there appeared to be some kind of compartment at the bottom of the housing. It was where the burner or motor—or whatever the hell it was—sat. Just large enough to accommodate a small body. If a boy were hiding there and someone turned it on, she thought, her imagination reeling free, he’d be burnt or mangled in the belts.

She tried to slide the big steel casing away from the wall, but it wouldn’t budge.

Here. I’ll help you, said the girl, and together they pushed and heaved. Inch by precious inch they wedged the dryer further away from the wall.

Little more, Molly huffed. Then she was down on the floor, the rough concrete fraying the knees of her stockings, the white dust caking her navy skirt. There was a substantial space below the tumbler but, except for the burner, it was empty.

He's not down here, the girl said. I’m sure. You’ve got to believe me.

Are there any other doors?

There's a side door. But it's boarded up.

Let me see it.

Molly raced back up the stairs. The doorway was covered with a sheet of plywood. She pounded her fists against it. Nailed shut.

A wave of nausea and dizziness swept over Molly. The room began to turn and Molly had to sink down on one of the low tables just to keep from keeling over. She sat with her head lowered into her hands and could slowly feel the blood draining back. There was no way Danny was still here.What's your name? Molly asked, trying to get a grip on herself.

Cheryl.

Cheryl, she repeated.I need you to think. Think real hard.

I’ve thought. I’ve thought of everything, don’t you know! She was now bawling openly.I remember him, of course I do! He's that nice little boy with the blond hair. With those curls. Big brown eyes. Always jumping around, she blubbered.

Molly got her pocketbook which lay by the door where she had first dropped it. She rummaged through it and found some crumpled tissue. She wiped her eyes and then held one out to Cheryl. Here.

The girl loudly blew her nose. She kept her gaze lowered, studying the damp tissue, afraid to meet Molly's eyes.

Look, either someone took him or he got out on his own, right? Molly tried to reason with the girl.

No one took him.

You’re sure?

"I’m positive! We keep the front door locked. We always do. That's the rule. Nobody could get past me."

So how did he get out? she asked, as much for her own benefit as the girl's.

I don’t know. I just don’t know!

Where exactly is Mrs. Oltz?

I called her. She said not to do anything. That she’d be right over.

Well, I’m calling the police, said Molly.Where's the phone?

Molly was just hanging up when Mrs. Oltz came storming through the front door. She was holding an icepack to the side of her face that was swollen like a balloon. Her eyes were tiny, angry slits cut into the white sea of her fleshy face. Her gray hair stood in wiry knots.

What's going on here? thundered Mrs. Oltz, her words garbled through a twisted mouth wadded with cotton. What the…? She took in the scene of the littered floors.

That's just what I’d like to know! said Molly advancing on her. Where's my boy?

You didn’t pick him up?

What the hell do you think I’m doing here?

Well then somebody else must have picked him up.

Who? asked Molly.

Mrs. Oltz turned on Cheryl.Well, who?

The girl shook her head and started to cry again.

I leave you for a few minutes, said Mrs. Oltz,and look what happens! And look at this mess!

The girl was now sobbing uncontrollably.

Please! Molly tried to inject.

Just let me handle this, Mrs. Oltz threw up a hand to silence Molly. I’ll get to the bottom of this. She turned back to Cheryl. Now stop your sniveling, girl.

Cheryl cried louder and Mrs. Oltz grabbed her and shook her. Molly was dumbfounded. She thought Mrs. Oltz was going to slap her. Why did I leave Danny here, thought Molly, why?

When did Danny Driscoll leave? she demanded.

But he didn’t! Let go of me! Cheryl tried to struggle free.

Well, he couldn’t just disappear, said Mrs. Oltz, releasing her grip.You kept the door locked, like you were supposed to, right?

Cheryl nodded.

I want to call the other parents, Molly said.The police are on their way.

The police? The police? Mrs. Oltz looked daggers at Molly, then turned on Cheryl.

"I called them," said Molly defiantly. Just then a patrol car screeched up in front.

"Come on, let's just all calm down. Officer Richie Pellegrino held up his hands. All three women were shouting at once and he couldn’t understand a word. There's probably a real simple explanation." He was a short, barrel-chested man with a belly that arched over the wide belt holding his equipment. The cop looked vaguely familiar to Molly. She had met him somewhere, somehow in the past, but for the moment couldn’t place him.

Okay, said the cop,Who was on duty here?

I was, said Cheryl.And I saw every parent who came in.

Then he should still be here! Molly jumped in.His jacket and lunch box are still here. Look! She held them up.But he's not!

What about the father? asked Pellegrino.

There is none, said Molly not missing a beat.

Grandparents. Other relatives who might—

No, no.

Or a—

No! I’m the only one. Molly jabbed a finger deeply into her chest until it ached.

I’m gonna need a good description of the boy. Pellegrino took out his pad and started jotting notes.You got a picture on you?

Molly fumbled through her wallet. This is old. He was only a baby here. I got a better one—

This’ll do the for the moment.

Look, we’re losing time just standing here. Molly pleaded. If someone kidnapped Danny, he could already be miles away.

"Kidnapped? echoed Mrs. Oltz indignantly. No one's kidnapped anyone!"

But I was watching— Cheryl tried to chime in.

Whoa! Hold on everybody, Pellegrino said.Let's just do this one step at a time. His radio squawked and he mumbled something into the mike clipped to his collar. Give me a description.

Molly raced through it. Every last detail. From his curly blond hair to the sneakers he was wearing—those expensive Nikes that she had finally broken down and bought for Danny, the ones with the green whoosh on the side that he called wings.

Pellegrino, scribbling, could hardly keep up with her.

"Please, Molly begged.Do something. Fast!"

Don’t worry. All the units picked up this call. Hang on, he said, and turned back to his mike.Blond four-year-old. ’Bout forty-five pounds. Last seen wearing denim overalls. Red flannel shirt. White and green sneakers…

When he finished, he turned to Molly. Look, I know you’re worried. My boys were little once, too, you know, he said gently. But kids have a way of getting into things. It usually isn’t as bad as it first looks. We’ll get everything ironed out. You’ll see.

Molly had never liked cops. As a kid growing up in Ithaca, she had been dragged in a couple of times. Once for shoplifting some lipstick up at the mall, and once for drinking beer at the falls near the high school. The kids she was hanging out with were always getting hassled, too. The cops in town had always struck her as cold and robot-like. They got their kicks out of busting you. This guy, with his soft blue eyes and silvery temples, however, actually seemed to care and she desperately wanted to trust him.

When was the last time anyone saw him and where? he inquired as he pulled out his notepad.

I left at two o’clock, and he was right there, said Mrs. Oltz pointing emphatically. On the floor. By that toy box. Playing with two other kids. It was the Ruzicka boy and Patty Bruce. They built a fort out of blocks. And they had a fire truck. They were playing war, and they were getting wild. So I had to get them to pipe down.

Molly found herself wondering if Mrs. Oltz was in the habit of bullying the children as she had just done with Cheryl.

I remember them playing, too, agreed Cheryl. Holding her breath, Molly turned to look at her.And then, about an hour later, she went on,I had them clean up so we could have story time.

We always try to get the kids to calm down before the parents start arriving, added Mrs. Oltz.

Was he there—with the other kids? asked Molly.

Yeah, said Cheryl,I remember him sitting there. He was joking with the Lifsey boy. Stevie. They kept poking each other and I had to ask them to be quiet so the other kids could hear.

And then? urged Molly.

And then the parents came. And, well… Cheryl became agitated and her eyes started to well with tears again. And then…then…he just wasn’t there!

Molly stared at her and felt empty.

Let me take a look around, said Pellegrino, pulling a long, black flashlight from his leather belt and heading toward the kitchen. Molly followed. The thing in his hand looked more like a club than a light.Sometimes a kid’ll just curl up and go to sleep somewhere. You find them and they’re perfectly okay.

"But I just searched the place. Everywhere." Molly was trying to keep up with him as he strode through the debris cluttering the sticky floor.

Pellegrino kicked aside some pots, opened a cabinet and checked it with his light. Okay, but I gotta do it, too. Follow procedures, he explained as he moved from cabinet to cabinet. Down on his knees, he shined his light behind the fridge. Then he was back into the hallway.

Are they really out looking for Danny?

Yeah. Of course. He climbed over the tangle of brooms and mops and overturned buckets as he waded into the storage closet. We take missing kids very seriously. He moved past her as if remembering something and went back into the kitchen and stared up at the ceiling. With a grunt he heaved himself up on one of the counters, pulling up one leg at a time until he was standing, his head touching the ceiling. He played the beam across the top of the cabinets. Hey, anybody check up in here? he asked, poking the trap door near his head.

Molly shook her head. He pushed open the portal and hoisted himself into the attic. Molly could hear his radio crackling as he rummaged around overhead, moving and sliding what sounded like boxes.

When he came down, the dark blue of his uniform was littered with tufts of dust and strands of pink insulation. Coughing, he haphazardly brushed himself off and went systematically again from room to room. Hey, what's this door? he asked finding the basement.Anybody check down here?

As he emerged from the cellar, Molly was waiting at the top of the stairs.Okay, she inquired, hands on her hips.Now what?

Pellegrino was sweating. He took off his hat and wiped his forehead. His gray hair was clipped in a brush cut, like Molly's father used to have. She thought about her father, a man she could only remember as unsmiling, depressed, eyes vacant except when he was drunk and angry—which was often; her mother who had died without ever seeing Danny. Danny, oh God! The evocation of his name caused something to seize up in her breast.

I just called in, said Pellegrino, seeing the look on her face. We got three units out there now just searching for your boy.

I’m calling the other parents, said Molly.

Yeah, yeah, good idea, said Pellegrino.

Let me call them, said Mrs. Oltz, trying to take charge.I don’t want to start getting people all riled up.

Give me the fucking numbers, demanded Molly, holding out her hand.

Mrs. Oltz meekly handed over the school directory.

The route up South Hill past the old Morse Chain factory is steep, an unrelenting incline as the narrowness of Aurora Street spreads into the four-lane highway that is Route 96B. It's a demanding climb for the little boy whose face has been whipped red by the cold wind sweeping off the lake. The sun, obscured at times by billowing clouds, hovers low above the horizon; the air is damp and smells pungently of vegetative decay and vehicle exhaust.

The afternoon shift at Therm, where they machine the blades for aircraft turbines, has just let out and the highway is jammed with the cars of workers anxious to get home. Delivery vans and tanker trucks headed through town are interspersed with the Sport Utes of Ithaca College kids on their way down to the Commons or out to the mall.

The boy stops momentarily as if attempting to gain his bearings. He turns to gaze down at the rooftops of the city nestled in the valley below. Shivering with cold, he wrinkles his brow in thought, then pushes on up the highway. Vehicles continue to whisk past, whipping up clouds of blinding dust and sand.

Further on, the boy cuts diagonally across the highway, prompting the sleepy driver of a large tractor trailer to slam on his air brakes. The line of traffic behind him jerks to a reflexive halt. No one seems to notice the boy, except as an obstacle to be avoided. No one gets out to confront him or question him. It is as if he were invisible.

Once across the highway, the boy slides down the embankment and pushes through the shrubbery. Now he is moving through the backyards of neatly kept Tudors and gingerbread Victorians, his feet shuffling through lawns deep in crisp fallen leaves. Here the air smells clean, the surroundings feel less frenzied. The boy's features become more relaxed. But he continues to climb the hill, moving ever upward.

Mrs. Lifsey? Dianne? This is Molly Driscoll. You may not know me. My boy Danny goes to Kute Kids? Molly fought to keep her voice from wavering as she talked into the phone in the hallway, the roster of names quivering in her hands. Cheryl and Mrs. Oltz, positioned on either side, listened anxiously. Through the plate glass window, Molly watched Pellegrino outside leaning into a squad car that just pulled up onto the sidewalk. Please dear God, she silently prayed, let him be with one of the other kids.

Is Danny with you?

"With me?" exclaimed Mrs. Lifsey, her voice leaping an octave. Why in the world would Danny be with me? What's wrong?

I’m at Kute Kids. I came to pick him up and he's not—

Oh my! gasped Mrs. Lifsey, then caught herself. Maybe he just went…

Did you see Danny when you came to pick up Stevie? You know, he's…

Sure I know Danny. Stevie plays with him and—

Look, just tell me if you…

There was a momentary silence.

Mrs. Lifsey? Dianne?

I’m trying to think. I’m trying…I remember seeing him in the morning. He was there when I brought Stevie. He was wearing a…a red plaid kind of shirt?

Yes. Yes. That's right.

And when I picked up Stevie…

Yeah?

I didn’t see him.

When did you pick him up?

She was here about five, whispered Cheryl. There were still others here.

Sometime just after five, confirmed Mrs. Lifsey.

Molly called Tanya Dawson. Molly knew her from her days waitressing at the Ramada. Tanya, who worked in the kitchen, had twin girls in Kute Kids. Their father was the assistant manager at Midas Muffler. The girls were coffee-colored and wore their hair in cornrows. Tanya always dressed them like little dolls.

Oh, yeah, sure Molly, I ’member you. Howya doin’? Where you workin’ now?

Look, Tanya, I got a serious problem. My little boy vanished from Kute Kids.

Mrs. Oltz rolled her eyes in silent protest while Cheryl chewed her nails.

Molly quickly filled Tanya in.Did you see him today when you came by?

Sure. In the morning. When I dropped off Keisha and Aisha. Hey, hol’ on a secon’. Wait! Gordy had to go back and bring ’em lunch. Gordy! You know Molly? Tha’ girl that used…Yeah. Yeah. Her little boy is missin’ from—

She could hear Gordy